


On The Way Down

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: All Human, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Assassin Dean, Castiel is an entrepreneur, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Spies, and, okay, spy!Dean, tagstagstags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:06:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lives a life where the lines between wrong and right are crooked and messy; often times, they are written by himself. His line of work called for it. After botching a particularly high stakes mission, he's sent back out for a mission that he can't afford to fail; assassinate Castiel Novak. But Castiel isn't all that he seems to be, and Dean can't help but get too close to his target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Defectus

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This story is already fully written.  
> IMPORTANT TO ME  
> All locations (Burger Heaven, Wellfleet) are actual places, but their descriptions may be a little off. 
> 
> Music: You Are A Tourist ~ Death Cab For Cutie

_Fuck. Fuck it all._

_Dean Winchester stared at the two women at the back of the room, huddled together, terrified. He stared at the man he was standing over, the dead man who he'd just put a bullet through. Jeff Morison, who'd stolen a particularly important flash drive. Jeff Morison, the mission Dean had selected because he had thought it would be a simple kill and retrieve._

_But nothing was ever simple in Dean's life._

_His commands had been simple; retrieve the flash, kill the thief, and anybody who happened to be there as well. Dean had expected to be assassinating a room full of spies like himself; not the man's goddamn wife and daughter. And if that wasn't enough, the flash wasn't in the premises; it was hidden god knows where, and possibly the only two people left who knew where were freaking innocents._

_Dean had never killed an innocent before. He's killed so many there could probably be an entire graveyard of his victims, except they were all hardened criminals or spies or corrupt businessmen. They were all people who would have easily killed him instead._

_In that moment, Dean wasn't thinking of the mission. He wasn't thinking of the corporation or his commanders or the consequences. He was thinking of the scared faces of the two women in front of him, the mother holding her daughter even though she was probably eighteen already, still trying to protect her, the daughter and her big, scared eyes drilling right into Dean's conscience. He couldn't kill them. He couldn't bring them in to face a fate worse that a bullet to the head. Both ways were so morally wrong._

_Dean had never really fully appreciated how ironic a top assassin with a conscience was. He supposed that made him the worst in the business, however skillful and resourceful he was._

_"Run," he said sharply, lowering his gun. They remained on the ground, eyes wide in shock. "Go!"_

_They scrambled out the back door, and a moment later Dean heard the sound of a car pulling away much too fast._

_Dean slipped out the back and headed straight for his own car, parked in the lot of some seedy pawn shop._

_The mission had failed, and he was royally screwed._

 

*****

 

Base, or headquarters, is a glass covered four story building, square and cold and it represents basically everything Dean hates. It's also the only life he now knows. Not that he knows much about it anyways; the Inc. can do whatever it wants, all he has to care about is getting the mission done. Something he's just failed at. 

As the leading assassin in the espionage department (that doesn't exist) within Campbell Inc., he's sort of a legend. Which wouldn't be that bad, except he still has to take orders from the fuckers on the top floor, and they're all massive dicks. Frankly, they also had the power to wipe his very existence off the face of this planet. 

Dean doesn't have much of an issue with killing and stealing and conning. The things he does are almost justified; the people he's killed aren't exactly good people. The issue is in the corruption that he knows he's enforcing, the corruption and now the taking of innocent lives that's just cropped up.

Inside the building he's greeted by the stoic lady they have manning the front desk, a dark spot of black and grey suit against the white desk and walls surrounding everything. Dean wonders why the Inc. decided to paint this building of all buildings white on the inside, seeing as its the darkest of them all. Should probably be painted red. 

They must have the AC cranked up to maximum power because despite the cool fall it is outside, the building feels like winter. Dean is trying to control shivers as he rides up the elevator to meet his superiors, although its hard to know whether he's shivering from cold or anticipation of their reaction to a failed mission. This is the first failure Dean's had in what... Months? And it's definitely the first one where he let the mission fail, let the targets escape, on purpose.

The doors slide open to reveal the conference room, the big brown table dominating the floor, behind it three men in suits that don't look particularly happy. Usually Dean wouldn't give a shit, and even here he has a reputation for being rebellious, but this time he'd fucked up on purpose, as they'd no doubt already been informed. He recognizes his normal commander, Uriel, standing in the middle between two equally grim looking men.

"Boss," Dean nods, trying to act nonchalant about everything, even though this time he's actually nervous.

"Agent Winchester." Uriel answers, not sounding amused at all. "Why don't you take a seat."

The instinct in his brain is screaming _abortabortabort_ , but he sits down stiffly anyways, looking up with his best butter-wouldn't-melt expression.

The three men remain standing, hovering almost, expressions stoic, and Dean swallows. This is beyond awkward.

"We'd like to discuss your recent mission failure." The guy on the right says, blunt. 

"I didn't kill those two women." Dean says flatly. It's pointless to beat around the bush with these guys, he learned that years ago.

"You failed to retrieve the flash drive." The man on the left corrects sharply. "You also let the only two people who could have given us it's location escape, and they have already fled the country."

"They were innocent."

"Does it _matter?_ " Uriel cries, banging his palm against the table. "You’re not actually trying to differentiate wrong from right _now_ , are you? Your entire job is based on wrong. This is how it works."

The man on the right shoves a file across the table. Dean sits up and reluctantly flips it open, revealing stats and pictures of some suburban small town. 

"We are demoting you." he says. "You may no longer choose which missions you take. There is a plane leaving here at nine thirty pm, you will take it." 

Behind the pictures is a plane ticket, passport and files and a new identity. It's a small relief that they've decided to let him keep his first name because its fucking _hard_ remembering all the time that you are now _Timothy_ or something.

"Pontiac, Illinois?" Dean asks while trying to swallow down the panic and irritation. He _hates_ flying on planes, all the way up in the air like a fucking bird. And he's pretty sure this is punishment as well, because its in his stupid file. 

"You'll be debriefed there by another commander in the safe house we have there. This is a test Dean. Don't fail."

************

Usually all his missions were in the continent, and he had at least a week to prepare, so driving the Impala everywhere wasn’t a problem. He’d forgotten how fucking chaotic an airport could be.

When he’s done with this mission (when he’s done kicking ass and proving to all the higher ups that he’s still the best agent they have) he needs to just go to a bar and get laid. It’s been more than a month since he’s even gotten drunk, and it’s starting to show.

The plane is boarding in half an hour, so Dean decides to research this ‘Pontiac, Illinois’ on Sammy’s old laptop, which just makes him even more anxious because he’s never been the type to just sit around and sift through information. He remembers when it used to be the Winchester brother’s, assassins as a team, but Sam had left the business a while ago, to become a _lawyer_ of all things. 

Married with a kid now, not that Dean holds a grudge. It stung a little to be left behind, but Sammy got _out_ by some way other than dying, which is something most in the business can never do. Dean sure as hell can’t. You either leave completely, die, or go join another organization on the other side of the country, like Bobby had. Dude was in _Kansas_. 

The research thing ends about a minute after he searches the town (all he got were pictures of ‘Route 66” and “Welcome” signs). Dean flips open his passport for the fiftieth time even though he doesn’t even need it, looking at the crappy picture of him back when his hair was shorter, and the name; “Dean Carson.” 

_“Ladies and gentlemen flight E-321 American Airlines to Pontiac Illinois is now boarding at gate four. Once again, flight E-321 American Airlines to Pontiac Illinois is now boarding at gate four.”_

Dean swallows hard and grabs his laptop bag, trying to control the stupid fear of planes. Its all he can do to smile uncomfortably at the flight attendants as he goes through the boarding hall; when he sits down his legs are thumping up and down and he’s gripping the seat too tight.

“Not too good with planes?” The flight attendant asks kindly, smiling a little too widely. Dean would have flirted with her shamelessly if he’d been anywhere else. Right now though he just nods and glares out the window.

He only starts to calm down after having a mini panic attack during take off, which is why he’s grateful nobody is sitting next to him. If Uriel and the bosses could see him now. _Very badass Dean_ , he thinks, irritated with himself. 

By some miracle he manages to doze off, until the plane lands and jolt and Dean is awake convinced they’re about to crash and die.


	2. Angeli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angel
> 
> Cue Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Tiptoe ~ Imagine Dragons

The safe house shouldn’t be called a safe house here in Pontiac. It’s more of a hide in plain sight house, one in the hundreds that line neatly paved roads and green lawns. The only difference is that all the flowers outside have long since died, the lawn is mowed but weed infested, and there’s suited man standing outside as Dean pulls up in a rented car. 

He looks like someone to never trust, even as he smiles at Dean and holds open the door, shiny shoes clacking on the tiles as they go into the kitchen.

"My name is Zach Aria." The guys says, holding out his hand. Dean takes it cautiously, even though the dude is really short and a bit old looking too. 

"Dean Winchester," he answers.

"I know. " he cuts in. "We don't have much time, so lets skip the pleasantries. Change of plans. See, your target has left Pontiac. Finished visiting the parents early, headed to New York City. You'll leave tomorrow, but until then," he waves at Dean to follow him into another room. "we gotta get you debriefed."

Inside what Dean had thought would have been a bedroom is instead a giant strategy room, walls covered in photos and clippings, most of a guy in suits and the occasional trench coats, dark haired and pale.

"The target?"

"Castiel Novak, or the angel. He was quite the business asset before he started having affiliations with the Pyris Corp. Either way, he knows who Pyris's moles are within Campbell. We need you to find out who they are and then—"

"Yeah, gank him. Now did you say _angel?_ " Dean interrupts, causing Zach to glare at him with his beady eyes.

"Yes, it's a nickname he's accumulated from his reputation for being, well, clean. And then there's his name."

Dean ignores the last part because the first part is hitting a little too close to his last mission. "Clean how? You mean he's an innocent?" Oh no. This is not what Dean needs right now, to kill some naive banker dude right after he gets punished for letting two other innocents live.

"Clean?" Zach laughs and it's more of a cackle. "I'm not so sure. But as business men go he's not that dirty. But here's the thing," he walks up to the wall across the door and taps on a group of gruesome crime scene photos and news clippings. "Last year. Mr. Novak and three other associates walk into the Bradly Ramming hotel in St. Lawrence to discuss whatever business he was in at the time. Three hours later, Castiel walks out and is on a plane to Boston in time for lunch. The next day hotel staff finds the other three men dead, they're organs on the walls." he stops pacing and points at a picture from a morgue; the man is on his stomach, back a bloody crater where his rib cage should be. "I don't know how one man blows up three individual spies' and leaves without so much as a blood stain, but nobody else was in that room."

So he's going after a possible innocent, more likely a trained assassin like himself who likes to keep his hands clean. Okay. Dean can do that. But he needs to know more.

"What does this guy even do?" he asks, walking up to a picture of Castiel Novak feeding the goddamn pigeons in Central Park like a kindly old man. "Is he CIA? From Europe?"

"As far as we can tell he grew up in Pontiac, Illinois the oldest brother of sister Anna and brother Balthazar. They are all dead, died in a car crash when Castiel Novak was eighteen. His history is kind of hazy from there, he just showed up with helpful intel and couple years ago. We know he's spent extensive time in Europe, but now he's a freelance entrepreneur for anything from weapons to information to staged assassinations." 

Dean can't stop looking at the pigeon photo, and the ones around it, pictures of Cas— _Castiel_ — talking on a phone outside a McDonalds, attending a black tie party, even a visit to the Singapore Botanic Gardens, watching _bee’s_ for god's sake. Out of the blue Zach hands him a folder that Dean fumbles with before flipping it open.

_Castiel Misha Novak, age: 38_

_Height: 5'11"_

_Hair color: dark brown_

_Eyes: blue_

_Race: Caucasian_

_..._

Dean flips the page without reading the rest, eyes landing on a close up picture of his target, stubble and piercing blue eyes.

Whoa there. _Piercing?_ They're just blue Dean. Very, _very_ blue.

Fingers snap in front of his face and Dean refrains from choking Zach to death because he just _really_ doesn't like this guy. Instead he just glares.

"Hello there?" Zach's saying. "Did you hear me?"

"Sorry, no, your gonna have to repeat that." Dean replies flatly. 

"You will be going in as _Dean Carson,_ as you already know. You’re going in as a potential associate from the Nordis side, interested in Mr. Novak's position as an asset to both of the competition. You two will be doing a month long trade in of information; Castiel wants the backdoor codes for the new security systems some... private banks have installed. You want the names of the moles within Campbell Inc."

Dean absorbs this is information. It's been what, a year since he's been in an op. that long, (a _month_ long operation), but it's pretty straight forward. "So... He wants to rob a bank?"

"More likely he knows people that want to. Entrepreneur, remember? Either way, you don't worry about that. Just get the information, and then kill him."

"Yeah, about that. Any specifics on how he goes out?" Usually Dean would just go for a bullet in the head but sometimes there's a catch and the target has to be burned or blown up and on one occasion, dumped in the middle of the Atlantic to drown.

"No. You just use that creative mind of yours to figure it out. This way," 

Zach leads him out of the tactical room and into where he guesses he'll be crashing. He points at two suitcases in the corner, and then a suit hanging on the back of the door to a pretty big looking bathroom. "Tomorrow, _your_ private jet leaves at twelve sharp from the airport you came from." Another Manila folders is passed to him, printouts for the Millenium Hilton Hotel. "You have a reservation for a room on the same _floor_ as Castiel Novak. Expect him to make the first move and go from there. All the codes he'll want will be sent to your room." 

Zach Aria moves to the door, handing to Dean a silver cellphone as he passes, probably to leave. "Twelve sharp Dean, and remember, Castiel Novak should be dead by October, but if it runs later you have to contact us using that phone. And please, don't screw up this time."

Seconds later he can hear the front door click closed. The first thing he does is check all the rooms in case his commander decided it would be funny to let him bunk with another assassin for the night. After coming up with nothing, and returning to the room, the first line of business is the creepy looking black suit cases he's been left with.

The larger one clicks open and inside are his weapons; a glock, assortment of knives, collapsible rifle, etc. The smaller one has different kinds of weapons, small exposives, cyanide and other assorted poisons, and a dart gun. There's also a small tablet with a simple looking note system that will send out a copy of whatever he types right to Headquarters. Okay. All set.

The fridge is stocked with beer and other alcoholic drinks but Dean regrettably steps away. This job is the most important one in a while, and he can't have a hangover on day one. He sets his alarm for dawn and settles down on the crappy mattress (he's slept on way worse). As he drifts off he's thinking of bees and pigeons and very blue eyes, but that doesn't mean anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is much loved :)  
> Thanks for reading


	3. Conventu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Eet ~ Regina Spektor
> 
> Cue Cas for real this time ;)

The jet is only a _little_ more comfortable than the commercial airlines had been; so what if it had caviar, wine, and he’s basically alone? All Dean cares about is the windowless bedroom in the back where he can sit and pretend he’s still on the ground. 

A couple minutes after takeoff the flight attendant knocks on the door. “Anything for lunch, sir?”

Dean replies quicker than intended. “No thank you.” 

He’s pretty sure he’ll barf if he so much as eats a peanut.

With nothing better to do, he dumps the contents of the two black suitcases on the bed and starts taking inventory of everything, his movements slightly restrained by the italian suit he’s wearing. There are a bunch of nifty little gadgets in the cases that Dean hadn’t bothered with last night; knives that are custom made to shoot out of the tops of his shiny shoes, a mini dart gun that is activated by the flick of a wrist. He puts all the weapons he can’t carry around easily back in the cases but installs the knife shoes as well as a gun in his waistband, the poisonous dart gun around his wrist.

With more than an hour left of the flight to New York City, Dean sprawls out on the bed and decides to read up on his subject. The file contains more than a few snapshots of the nerdy little entrepreneur, some in different lighting so his eyes change color from the darkest blue to one that looks like there’s ice behind those pupils. 

Okay. Time to stop looking at photos.

It turns out that Zach had been right about the nickname; the guy didn’t exactly skip off the forest path much. Some odd events here and there, but nothing can link the crimes to Castiel himself. The guy is multilingual from his time in Europe (languages not specified or confirmed) and he comes from a highly religious family, explaining that _name_ , although from the path he’s chosen Dean doesn’t think he’s following the family way. Not much is known at all about his relatives.

With his acquired wealth he owns a _bee farm_ and an old library in Montreal amongst many other villas and houses. In the relationships department he’s a dead end, not showing any evidence of even interest in either gender. For all the agency knows he could be a goddamn virgin.

Dean pretends he isn’t paying more attention to that particular section.

No pets, no family he’s close to, no girlfriend, boyfriend, and all his ‘friends’ are spies. Which is basically the equivalent to an enemy. The guy is pretty alone, and doing well for it.

It’s when Dean is stuffing the files back into the larger suitcase that the plane touches down, causing him to have a mini heart attack before he realizes what’s actually happening. He pulls himself together just in time for the flight attendant to knock on his door again and thank him for flying with them.

Stepping onto the tarmac, Dean can see agents waiting for him by the entrance to the airport, sunglasses on even though the sky is cloudy, in silky grey suits unlike his black one. As it turns out, they’re only there to help him catch a cab, and then he’s on his own.

 

*********************

 

The first impression Dean has of the Millenium Hilton is _glass_. Its a good old fashioned skyscraper, the first few floors taken up by the main lobby’s cathedral ceiling, windows all reflective of the city around them.

He pays the cab and tells him to keep the change, straightening his suit and putting on the face he usually wears when he poses as the FBI, no nonsense. 

Dean walks through the glass front doors, the air inside rushing out past. The man at the front desk, short and bony, barely glances at him as he makes his way towards him.

“I have a reservation here.”

“Name?” the guy doesn’t even look up from the screen.

“Dean Carson.”

Apparently that’s enough to gain his attention because his head shoots up and his elfish features light up in the fakest delight Dean’s ever seen. 

“Mr. Carson! Yes, I have you right here. This is your key card,” A golden card is palmed onto the desk towards Dean. “Room 1235, floor 50. Do you need any help with those?” he motions at the two suitcases.

“No need.” 

Just as the elevator doors begin to close, a man in a dirty trench coat, suit and messed up tie runs in like a freaking vagabond, dark hair flopping as he catches his breath against the back of the elevator.

“Man, you okay?” Dean asks, because while he may be a badass assassin he wasn’t born a psychopathic killer like that Christian kid they’d just hired at Campbell. The dude looked exhausted.

The elevator doors are closing when he raises his head, revealing the most supernatural blue eyes Dean’s ever seen, light stubble on a tired face. Dean freezes and feels that familiar urge to go for his gun.

Holy shit. Its Castiel Novak.

The smooth, tailored Castiel that had been in the photos in the strategy room are nothing like he is now. The guy looks like he was mugged or something, or running away from muggers in the very least. And seriously, his tie is so screwed up that Dean has a physical impulse to reach over and straighten it for him.

If Castiel recognizes Dean he hides it pretty damn well. 

“I am fine.” he says in reply to Dean’s question. His voice is not anything like Dean had expected (not that Dean had thought of it), gravely and deep. That’s all that’s spoken until the elevator dings and sure enough, Castiel Novak steps out on the same floor as him, thankfully heading straight in the opposite direction. 

Dean has to summon a whole lot of willpower to stop standing stunned by the cigarette disposal and turn towards room 1235. However he had expected to meet his target, that had not been it. What had he even been _doing?_

The inside of his hotel room is big, luxurious, which means this whole mission must be pretty fucking important to the company if they’re investing in it. After a bug sweep of the room and a peek at the mini bar, Dean decides to change out of this suit, because what he needs right now is a beer and crap soap operas in some jeans. Two plane rides in two days is Dean’s quota and beyond.

He throws open the walk in closet and is confronted with... more suits. 

They’re all his size of course, expensive, with matching fedoras and shoes and its a pretty good justification that Dean would never survive as a lawyer like Sammy.

He’s more than slightly irritated when someone knocks on his door, because the mini bar doesn’t even have _beer_. 

“Room service.” a man’s voice calls, and Dean didn’t order any.

He’s immediately on guard; this wouldn’t be the first time somebodies tried to stop him from doing a job. He slides out his gun and cocks it, tapping his heels on the floor, knives springing forward.

He throws open the door and comes face to face with a scared but unsurprised waiter, wheeling a cart with one covered plate. The little dude doesn’t look like a threat, hands raised and weaponless. Dean stows the gun with an awkward cough and wonders whether this could get him kicked out of the hotel.

“They said you might do that.” the waiter grumbles. He lifts the lid on the plate, revealing another fucking manilla folder, this time with the numbers 6-2-5-4 written on it. “This is for you. They also said to tell you, painting.”

Dean takes the folder cautiously, nodding to him before closing the door swiftly in his face.

The knives retract back into his shoes once Dean presses the heels again, doing so while he locates the one painting in the room, some modern art piece with a lot of bright colors that amount to a big blob of nothing. Behind it is a safe. Dean presses the digits 6-2-4-5, half expecting it to explode or something, but all that happens is a click and it swings open.

Inside the manilla folder are what appear to be Castiel’s bank codes, color coded in tabs that have different names on them, corresponding with a number; _1, 2, 3, 4._

He stows everything he can into the small safe; the correspondence tablet, manilla folders and most of the cash he was given. In his pocket is a wallet full of hundred dollar bills and platinum debit cards, so he’s basically set for the month (and beyond honestly). Since Castiel is supposed to make first contact, Dean decides that he should give into his stomach’s urges and go eat.

 

*************

 

It took two seconds of walking in and then promptly out of the hotel restaurant for Dean to realize that that wasn’t his kind of scene. He walks out of the hotel and sits down at the closest place he can find—Burger Heaven—relishing in the fact that he can sit down looking like a Wall Street stock guy and eat cheeseburgers without attracting a bit of attention.

The city outside seems to almost get busier as the sky gets dark (everything lights up like Christmas trees here) and it's captivating because Dean rarely sees the big city. Not that he's particularly fond if it either. There's no room for Baby in the packed streets.

 

He brushes past more than a few people as he heads back to the Millenium, on edge because in these massive and varied crowds threats are virtually undetectable. It's only in the elevator, alone this time, that he starts to relax, until he gets back into his suite and finds an envelope on his pillow marked, _Dean Carson._

His gun is out in a moment and then he's bursting into the bedroom, the bathroom, behind the mini bar, but he's alone in the massive suite. That would have been different maybe even just minutes ago. Somebody had been inside his suite, and not the mandatory staff because he'd put up the 'do not disturb' sign. After another sweep for bugs, he stashes the gun and grabs the painting off the wall. Nothing is missing from the safe.

Since he's not dead yet, Dean's pretty sure whoever was here wasn't trying to kill him. He's also pretty sure it was Castiel Novak.

The envelope turns out to be a letter, written in neat, slightly looping penmanship;

_Dean Carson,_

_I apologize for the way we met today. I wasn't aware that you were Dean Carson. Next time we meet I'll be more composed._

_On the topic of a meeting, I'd like you to join me at that place you were at earlier today, Burger Heaven? It's not ideal, but it's discreet and I've developed an odd fondness for red meat while staying here. But to business._

_I suggest you bring the first set of codes if you want to see more of me. Your Nordis agent was quite ominous, but I am to be seeing you over the next month, correct? Everything else will be arranged at our next meeting. 8:30 am tomorrow. Please come alone._

_Sincerely,_

_Castiel Novak_

 

After reading the letter Dean has to sit back a bit and just absorb what he’s just learned, not just of their arrangement here but of Castiel. What kind of spy, if he was a spy, or business man writes like that? _I’ve developed an odd fondness for red meat._

Now he’s _curious_. Dean wants to know about the bees and the red meat and who this Castiel Novak _is_ , which is the absolute worse thing for an assassin to feel. Jesus. He needs to get it together.

He lays out a shiny black suit for tomorrow, showers, and then takes out the bank codes marked number one. He can’t help but wonder what Castiel will be like; a douche bag, a con man, a trained spy?

As it turns out Castiel is nothing like somebody from this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading
> 
> Feedback is much loved :)


	4. Notos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acquaintance 
> 
> In which the angel goes to burger heaven, no pun intended. (right)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Amsterdam ~ Imagine Dragons
> 
> Okay, a bit of clarification.  
> Pyris, Campbell (Dean's) and Nordis are like the three large corporations controlling the east coast. They just all really like to shake hands and spy on each other, and that's the mess Dean and Cas are in.

Dean wakes up in the morning refreshed, if not a little annoyed at having to wear a damn _suit_ to sleep and promises himself he’ll go and buy some jeans or something after his Burger meeting with Castiel. Castiel the angel. Castiel the target.

After a shower and good look in the mirror, he’s heading out with a gun and a thin stack of papers inside a manila file, imagining what Sam would be saying to him about eating cheeseburgers at eight in the morning. He’d probably turn on his sass face and then order a salad and then go into one of those early grave health food rants. Those were the days.

The crowd was as, well, crowded as ever, and its like a breath of fresh air when he finally manages to stumble in Burger Heaven. He wonders for a brief moment whether Castiel knows about his nickname, and whether this is all just a really bad pun. The angel in burger heaven.

Then he sees Castiel, and sadly the first thing that pops into his mind is that this dude doesn’t joke. 

His face is so stoic its like there’s no emotion in that head, and he looks only a little better than he had in the elevator yesterday, still tired and rumpled. And his _suit_ , Dean’s all about flannel and casual wear but the guy needs to iron it or _something_. His blue tie hangs loose and sad, but at least the trench coat doesn’t look like its rolled in the mud recently. 

He must have spotted Dean before Dean had spotted him because his eyes are piercing even from across the diner, eyes squinty and its _disconcerting_. Dean doesn’t notice he’s stopped until another dude nudges him out of the way and Dean starts moving, not even stopping to confront the guy. His eyes get even weirder the closer he gets, until two giant orbs of _blue_ are looking up at him with something like a smile, all eyes. Dean suspects its a grin by Castiel’s standards.

“Hello Mr. Carson.” he says, and despite yesterday his voice still surprises Dean. Its lower and rougher than expected, but not at all unpleasant. Which really isn’t important right now.

“Ah, hello. Dean please.” he takes a seat across from Castiel and a moment later the waitress sashays over. Dean’s blatant flirting efforts kinda fail when he realizes she thinks he and Castiel are on a date or something.

They both end up ordering cheeseburgers and no drinks, although Dean, for once, barely touches his food while Castiel digs in like he isn’t even there, eyes drifting out the window. 

Dean clears his throat because its nearing awkwardness. “So... business?”

Castiel wipes his face with a napkin and then regards Dean with a certain level of blasé. Then he nods just a bit too late. Maybe Dean is starting to understand why this guy barely has any attachments. 

“I take it you came prepared.” Castiel says, motioning towards the folder. 

This is the most Castiel has said this entire time (and it’s been like half an hour) and Dean is a little taken aback by how the little dude straightens up in the booth and fixes Dean with those _eyes._

“Dean?”

“Huh?” _Smooth._ “Yeah. So are you just going to...” 

Castiel does that squinty thing again and then sweeps his gaze around the diner and out the window. “Its not safe.”

It just dawn on Dean that there might be others here that want this information, and its followed by the realization that its been a _really_ long time since he’s been in an actual operation, not just a hit. His eye’s start sweeping the room as well. “Wait, you mean there are people following us?”

“It’s nothing of import.” Castiel replies, returning his attention to the napkin he had just used. He slides his hands into his jacket and Dean automatically moves for his gun but all that comes out is a pen. 

Castiel begins to write on the napkin: _There is a bug in your left hand jacket pocket. Crush it under your foot_.

Dean freezes and then reaches for his pocket, staring at Castiel with wide eyes when he feels something small and round. There’s a miniscule red light blinking on the side, which goes right out as Dean stomps on it under their table.

“How the hell...” he demands, once he’s crushed the thing so it looks like breadcrumbs.

“The man that bumped into you at the front door.” Castiel says simply, offering no other explanation and Dean decides not to push it. “Please be aware of this next time. Meet me tomorrow at Bethesda Fountain in Clifton Park, same time.”

Its obvious that Castiel Novak is the one calling the shots in this arrangement, which isn’t the best thing in most situations except Dean doesn’t know jack squat about business and whatever crazy spies Castiel has managed to attract. 

“Okay,” Dean agrees, wrapping up his barely touched food. Castiel stands up with him, glancing down at their table before looking up at Dean expectantly. He hands over the file with the codes. “See ya tomorrow, Cas.”  
Dean doesn’t even know why he’s being friendly to his target, or even giving him a nickname, but Cas’s reaction is fun enough. 

He tilts his head and squints again, and Dean abolishes the thought that pops up in his mind about how the expression looks. “My name is _Castiel_.” he says, and he sounds so confused and serious its comical.

“Sure thing Cas,” 

 

***************

 

The first order of business after he leaves Burger Heaven is to find some actual clothing, after checking multiple times if he has a tale and doing a personal sweep for bugs every time somebody so much as brushes him. Its a relief to get back into the back into the hotel after an uneventful lunch, even if it means he’s stuck there for the rest of the afternoon. 

For some reason, when the elevator dings and the doors slide open he goes to his right, heading away from his room and in the direction Cas had went that first day. He must have walked past twenty rooms, stopping by each one and wondering which one Castiel is in, or lives in if he’s out. Then he goes back to his suite and spends a good hour drinking beer he ordered up while trying to fully understand what the hell is going on here.

Obviously there is a third, maybe even fourth party here that’s interested in whatever game he and Cas are playing. Campbell had told him nothing. Zachariah had made it sound simple, focused all on a one man show.

So much for no attachments. 

Dean wonders briefly whether these people know that he’s actually here to kill Castiel, and whether they’ve tipped him off, and if so what he’ll do if Cas comes after him, would he kill him even before all the information gets passed over? 

Dean decides its time for a stronger drink.

The rest of the afternoon is spent watching Clint Eastwood movies streamed from the hotels very nice TV, although now even the wild west can’t distract him from the thought that he’s stumbled into something.

He needs to stop over-analyzing everything. He almost misses the simple find-and-kills he used to do, the coldness of it all, because now he knows who he’s killing. Like that Ellen and Jo. And he couldn’t make that mistake again.

Before he sleeps (and he’s not even that drunk) he stumbles over to the safe and brings out the tablet, just to replace it and crash down on the bed and take out his cellphone, his own personal one that he’s paid a whole lot of money for to keep even Campbell out of. Maybe its the alcohol, maybe its the confusion, but Dean decides to do what he always used to do when he was confused. Consult his brother.

On the third ring Sammy picks up, sounding a little hesitant. “Dean..?”

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says, and it sounds so _good_ to hear his voice for the first time in months. Sam wasn’t exactly supportive of Dean’s occupation, the life he had left behind, but it wasn’t like that would be enough to stop all contact.

“Hey Dean... How are you doing?” 

The words are careful, because he isn’t sure if Dean is out on vacation or in the middle of a hit or what and now Sam’s a freaking crime fighter. The conversations they have are strained now, what he does a lingering cloud in the background. 

Today Dean decides to get right to the point. “I was demoted. I’m in the middle of an op. on this _angel_ businessman or whatever.”

He can hear Sam’s bewilderment over the silence on the line. “... Demoted? Over what?”

“I...” Dean sighs and run as a hand over his face. “I didn’t kill these two innocents and the mission failed.” 

Dean knows that Sam is at a loss at how to respond to this, because his instinct is to no doubt pat Dean on the back except the mission _failed._

“You did the right thing, Dean.” Sam says eventually. 

“Yeah Sam, I know.” Not that it counts for anything in this world. “But I... I can’t tell you much of anything but there’s some kind of shit going down here...”

“I’m not sure what I can do. Do you need my help?” Sam is starting to sound worried, and the last thing Dean wants is for him to go rushing into some secret society war for his spy brother when he’s got a three year old and a girl at home.

“No, _no,_ just, actually forget it.” 

“Dean are you in trouble?” 

Dean isn’t even sure what he’s in yet, or whether he’s in anything at all, hell, he could just be overreacting to a bug in the pocket.

“I don’t know what I’m in, okay? I’ll be fine here...”

They spend the next hour or so talking about little things, mostly Sam and his family and his life and a lot about little Adam. Dean enjoys hearing about everything, like a little window to the normal world, even if it makes him a little depressed.

“He should really see his favorite uncle more often, Dean.” Sammy says, and Dean wishes he could be there more.

“I know Sam. I’ll see if I can take a break after this op. and come on down.”

The thought makes him slightly happier. Jess knows all about Dean’s occupation and, although she was a bit freaked at first and banned Dean’s rifle from the house she’s surprisingly accepting. And she makes the most amazing pies. And Adam, frankly, had Dean wrapped around his little fingers since the day Dean had first saw him, although he could swear the kid was an evil genius like Sam.

He’d get to see them after this was all finished. He’d take them on a road trip. After he kills Castiel. Nevertheless, something inside him twists at the thought, and he ignores it as he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R&R
> 
> thanks for reading :)


	5. Hostis Hostem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enemy's Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been able to get to a computer until now.  
> Here they come...  
> Music: Iridescent ~ Linkin Park

When he arrives at Bethesda Fountain Dean is basically convinced that under all the straight faces and squinty eyes Castiel is making an actual joke, because the little nerdy dude is there, right in front of... a giant bronze angel.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Dean mutters, eyes scanning the giant female angel touching down on the fountain, those little baby angels—cherubs?—underneath where the water cascades down.

Cas is staring at the statue with as much interest as he had stared at the codes yesterday (a fair amount), and continues to stare even as Dean comes to stand _right_ next to him, looking small in that giant trench coat.

“Angel of the Waters,” Castiel says, and his voice startles Dean a little, as always. “ almost one hundred and fifty years old, bronze,” he does that little weird motion with his arm, body not moving at all, pointing at the cherubs. “Temperance, Purity, Health, and Peace.” 

Okay. Dean’s not sure what to make of Cas’s odd little history facts that have nothing to do with what they’re supposed to be discussing. And even more confusing, Dean kinda doesn’t want him to stop. 

“Great Cas,” he says instead, and its (not captivating) as his eyes turn to find Dean’s and nail him there on the terrace.

“Hello Dean.” Cas turns full and then sits down on the edge of the _really big_ fountain, motioning for Dean to join him. There are few people around for once, an occasional jogger and families milling around, nothing like what the place would look like in the summer.

Dean sits with maybe two feet between him and Cas although its obvious that none of this awkward to the entrepreneur as his gaze travels around from the trees to the sky to pigeons wandering around. Dean’s mind flashes to that picture of Cas feeding the pigeons and then moments later there’s bread in Castiel’s hands and he’s chucking it at the birds who flutter around and dive for the pieces.

Dean feels the urge to break into hysterical laughter, and stems it. The air is cool, breezy, and the trees are all different sorts of colors. The sky is clear but its not blue, like a light gray because summer’s passed and the vitality is draining away. The terrace is vast, and when its so empty, peaceful. Sammy and his family would have loved it here. Maybe he’d bring them someday.

Maybe he’d been doing a bit of gazing too because he doesn’t notice that the bread throwing has stopped and Cas is staring at him.

“Today is a nice day.” Cas states like its a fact, makin Dean’s eyes zip from the sky to his sky colored eyes which are so _bright_ in the day light that Dean almost wants to ask _how do you eyes work?_ Not that he does. Not that he’s even thinking of it. “I’ve always loved New York City,”

Castiel is facing forward, but his head is tilted towards Dean so he looks like he’s an owl, that expectant look on his face again.

“Yeah.” Dean replies, a beat too late although he doubts Castiel will notice or care. 

“The name?” he asks, because he doesn’t really see the point in staying here and making small talk with his target.

There’s a small shift as Cas turns to face Dean. “Your infiltrator is—”

Everything afterwards goes lightning fast and at the same time very slow, a sensation that Dean is familiar with. The first thing he notices are Cas’s eyes (he needs to stop thinking of them) widening farther than he’s ever seen them go, and then Castiel is lunging at him and Dean doesn’t have time to pull any weapons except Cas isn’t attacking him he’s _protecting_ him, dragging him off the fountain and to the ground.

The second thing he notices is the loud crack of a gun shot and then a jogger right in front of them topples over, red spilling across the bricks of the terrace. He’s only slightly aware of Cas kinda sorta draped around him, breathing heavily and then he’s dragging Dean away, using the statue and the fountain as a shield as he tugs on Dean’s arm and they run into the treeline, the paved path leading away from the terrace visible to their right.

Just before they had run Dean had caught a glimpse of a white suit and a gun among the families strolling around the edge of the terrace. There are screams still erupting behind them.

Dean doesn’t know how long they run, only that when they stop and arrive at a silver car (a spyder) he’s leading against the hood out of breath and Cas isn’t exactly in better shape except he’s kinda of leaning on Dean, his hand still gripping Dean’s arm wear he had grabbed it to run.

The grip loosens and Dean whips his gaze around. There’s no white suit, or anyone really pursuing them, and their still somewhere in the park, with some children staring at them but nothing more.

Cas has regained enough of his breath to stand almost straight, smoothing out his clothes (like they were smooth in the first place).

Dean breaks the silence, but then he tends to do that in any situation. “What—what the _hell_ was that, Cas?”

Cas glances around like Dean had, and his hair is flopping all over his forehead after its recent adventure. “We aren’t safe here.” he says, and Dean swallows the urge to yell _no shit._

“I _know_ that Cas.” Dean hisses instead.

The car that Dean is starting to realize is Castiel’s (he drives a spyder, okay) makes a clicking noise like the doors unlocking and Castiel steps around to the door to the driver’s seat, looking at Dean from across the low ceiling of the car.

“I’ll meet you at the lobby in the hotel, that’s the one safe haven we have. Hurry, and do not trust anyone who approaches you.” 

Dean is feeling slightly annoyed because he’s pretty sure those people hadn’t been coming from his side of things, and Castiel is _still_ calling the shots. 

“Will you explain what the hell is going on and why some guy just tried to—” 

“The longer we are out in the open the easier we are making it for them to find us. Rendezvous to the hotel lobby room.” Cas says with a bit of frustration and maybe anger, which is a lot emotion for him since Dean has known him (two days, Dean, two days). Castiel steps inside his car and then its pulling away before Dean can even think of a reply. 

 

****************

 

Of all the times he’s felt relief at entering the uncrowded hotel lobby, he’s never been more relieved than when he steps inside after running in from the taxi out front, the whole time convinced he was about to get shot in the back. The relief turns right into irritation when he sees Cas sitting in the array of couches in the lobby, sagging into the cushions a bit like he’s tired. But then he always seems tired. Almost getting shot is a good way to drain some energy.

Dean plops down on the couch opposite to Cas. “Thank’s for leaving me there with the assassin.”

The irony of his words don’t slip past his mind.

Cas looks slightly perturbed, which Dean really hopes is his version of apologetic. “I’m sorry for that, although he had been trying to kill me. I doubt he would have killed you unless I was there.”

There are so many questions in Dean’s head at the moment, questions laced with the underlying realization that yes, Dean has stumbled onto some serious shit. So the third party hadn’t been after the codes. They’d been after Cas.

“Why are they trying to kill you?” he asks.

“Why do people try and kill you, Dean.” Cas fires back, except it doesn’t sound defensive coming out of his mouth, more resigned.

When Dean doesn’t answer, he explains. “Yesterday, when I reached for my pen you reached for a gun. You have extensive calluses on your trigger finger. You don’t walk like a businessman, or a white collar worker. You walk like a trained agent. Dean, in this line of business, everybody has people trying to kill them.”

Dean isn’t sure whether to be relieved that Cas didn’t deduce that he was an assassin from the way he walked, or panicking that his covers been half blown. He decides it doesn’t matter because what Castiel is saying is true, there’s tons of people out there gunning for him.

“That isn’t an answer, Cas.”

Cas sighs and leans forward slightly. “They aren’t from Campbell or Pyris if you’re wondering. They are... europeans. They used to be like family to me. I deserted the cause, a traitor. And now I’m marked down for death.”

He says all this calmly while fiddling with the buckle on his coat sleeve, like he’s talking about the weather, while Dean is absorbing this new information that Cas is freaking marked for death and the europeans are coming _here_. And then Dean has to backtrack his thought process because Cas is already marked for death by _him_ and so the idea of him getting gunned down in Central Park or on the street somewhere shouldn’t make him feel like this.

He distracts himself by saying, “Who are _they_ exactly?” 

Cas is still staring at the button on his sleeve like it holds all the answers. “It’s an organization just like the one you work for. Its just more archaic and less forgiving.” 

Dean want’s to argue that Campbell (or Nordis as Castiel thinks) is _not_ forgiving at all unless you want to leave cleanly like Sam did, leaving it _all_ behind. The irony returns, because, if–when–Dean kills him it will be because of Campbell’s unforgiveness. Dean pretends the thought doesn’t make him feel slightly ill.

So he nods and swallows. “Are you going to tell me the name?”

Cas might be smiling, or grimacing. He takes out his pen again and grabs Dean’s hand so suddenly that he’s kind of stunned into inaction as Cas scrawls _Elliot Kramer_ on his palm upside down like a teenage girl writing down her number on his hand. That thought is almost weirder than Cas himself.

He releases Dean’s hand and replaces the pen and sits back like he did not just invade like fifty personal space bubbles. 

“There you go.” he says, watching Dean’s weirded out expression like he’s the one who just–just...

“Thank’s,” Dean manages. Things sink into silence before Dean voices a thought that had been floating around, because there could be freaking assassins all around this hotel as they speak. “What are you going to do then, if they’ve found you?”

Cas sighs and then sinks into the couch once more, looking like a very serious lost puppy. “I need some time to assess my options. I will contact you tonight.”

And then he’s standing up and walking away and Dean is watching the tail of his trench coat disappear between the two sliding doors.

 

******************

 

When Castiel had said contact Dean, Dean had thought of a letter under his door, on his pillow, in his lunch, on his TV screen, even a phone call, not a knock on a door.

Dean throws open the door (a gun barely behind his back) and Cas is standing there in his dirty trench coat and tie and walking inside past Dean without an invitation. Dean closes the door and turns around, and Cas just looks _restless_ , pacing around right in the space between the couch and the TV like he had too much coffee or something.

Before Dean can say anything Castiel just straight up says, “Put away the gun Dean.” and Dean does it because there’s really no other way to respond in this situation.

“So did you figure anything out?” Dean asks, when it looks like Cas isn’t going to stop wearing out the floor.

Castiel looks at him almost scornfully like he was interrupting, before finally walking over to where Dean is sitting by the minibar, deflating where he stands in a sigh.

“I am leaving the city.” he says, staring full on at Dean and now his eyes are dark in the lighting, a deep blue. “The address is in here if you want to continue our business. If you decide to, meet me there next Thursday. If not, this is where we part ways.” 

Dean takes the envelope that’s offered to him, the memory Zach Aria’s annoying voice floating up. _Castiel the Angel of Thursday,_

He doesn’t realize he’s murmured, “ _Angel of Thursday..._ ” until he find Cas’s gaze locked on him again, like he’s suddenly much more interesting.

“Yes, I didn’t expect you to get the reference.” Castiel says, and he sounds downright bewildered and... pleased? 

Oh good, he’s exceeded Cas’s expectations. That doesn’t make Dean happy at all. 

“Burger Heaven was fun,” Dean says, because that just needs to be addressed. 

Now Castiel looks mildly embarrassed, and its endearing in the weirdest ways. Dean abolishes that thought (which he seems to be doing quite a lot lately). 

“You were eating there,” Cas admits and his gaze has fallen to his sleeves again. “the irony was amusing.”

Dean tries to stop his mind from thinking, because his irony of the situation certainly wasn’t amusing to him. Here was Cas, running from assassins, inviting an assassin to run with him.

Soon after Castiel departs with an awkward “Goodbye, Dean.” and Dean reaches out and gives an equally awkward handshake and Dean wishes that that could be the last time he sees Castiel, because he doesn’t want to kill him, and he’ll admit it because it’s been gnawing at him since Burger Heaven. 

The sad thing is he will kill him. Castiel is marked twice, and this is Dean’s job. But there will be no pain, not even fear if he can help it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading
> 
> Feedback is much loved :)


	6. Salvum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safe Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: When I Grow Up ~ First Aid Kit

With the direct order from Zach Aria over the phone, after Castiel had left (You follow your target wherever he runs, just complete the mission), Dean takes another dreaded plane ride to... Cape Cod.

Castiel’s envelope had the oddest location, although it was Castiel so Dean supposed he should stop being surprised. 

_Howard Johnson Inn_

_West Yarmouth, MA._

_Cape Cod, Lewis Bay Inlet._

Dean isn’t exactly sure why Castiel would decide to run to the beach, but here he is a week later, pushing open the door to the main desk of the Howard Johnson Inn, a series of rooms arranged around a central outdoor pool, two floors, connected to the ground by white wooden staircases. it looks like giant wrap around porch to Dean.

Its possibly the exact opposite of the Millenium Hilton, not that this type of scene is unfamiliar to him, since its one floor too big for a motel. 

The guy at the front desk is donning a bright orange employee shirt, tapping away at the computer just like the man at the Millenium had been, except when Dean walks in (wearing a suit that he just realizes might look a little weird) the guy actually looks up.

“Hey there,” Dean lets the door close,trying to not swing his black suitcases awkwardly. “Is there a Castiel Novak residing here?” 

The man’s eyes light up in recognition, and he brings out a keycard, green and white. “Are you Dean Carson?”

“Yes?” Dean answers.

“Room 208.” 

 

Room 208 is on the second level, which is an exact replica of its bottom counterpart except where the walk outside the doors are is a wrap around balcony. He finds himself standing outside the door, almost as if he’s _nervous_ and then brings out his gun incase something nasty is waiting on the other side.

The key card makes the door click and then it’s swung open, revealing a very disheveled and surprised looking Cas that almost makes Dean drop his gun. Instead he slams the door closed again and stands there in a state of shock.

So Castiel had just taken a shower. The dude had been expecting him right?

Castiel had been wearing, well, a _towel_ , in the middle of drying his hair and he looked—nope. Stop it right there, Winchester.

He must have stood out there for ten minutes before a gruff and embarrassed, “Come in,” comes from behind the door and Dean pushes it open gingerly. Castiel is sitting on the edge of a slept in bed, a simple dress shirt on with black business pants, glaring at Dean with that squinty eye’s look. 

Dean is seriously fighting the urge to laugh, because there is something wrong with him. “...You weren’t expecting me?”

Castiel gives a little huff and then stands up, and Dean tries to forget the sight of him shirtless, and is _not_ thinking of how well that shirt fits him and how his hair is still damp and—Instead he opts to looking at Cas’s trenchcoat and suit jacket hooked to the back of the bathroom door.

“I was not expecting you to arrive so early. I thought you would be arriving around noon, not _eight in the morning_.” 

Dean shrugs and sets down his suitcases. “It’s still Thursday.”

Cas’s eyes go all squinty again for a moment before he turns around and heads to the bathroom door, pulling on his suit jacket and then the trenchcoat and suddenly there’s the Cas that Dean has known for the past week.

“Where am I staying?” Dean asks, following Cas as he bustles right past him and through the door.

“That is where we are going now. Now put away the gun, there are other residents in the area.”

Dean hadn’t even realized he still had it out, and stows it. He’s starting to feel a bit guilty about busting in on a half naked Cas with a gun, which is ridiculous because how guilty will he be when he...

“Dean?” Cas looks a moment away from snapping his fingers in front of Dean’s face, his face maybe a foot away from his own, and it makes Dean stumble back in surprise because seriously, the dude needs to learn about personal space.

_Yes Dean,_ a vicious voice in his head murmurs. _He should learn it so he can be polite in the two weeks he has left._

Dean ignores it, instead focusing as Cas pulls out another keycard and hands it to him, opening the door (218) and stares at him like, _what are you waiting for?_ in the way that he does.

It’s as if Castiel has a whole language of stares and Dean is just starting to understand it.

When Dean’s inside and his cases are on the table Castiel clears his throat at the door. “There is a blue Honda in the parking lot for you. The keys are in the first drawer of the bedside table.”

He closes the door behind him, a burst of slightly salty air sweeping towards Dean at his departure.

 

*******************

 

With the keys is a note, neat script on the hotel’s notepad: _Seafood Sam’s, 12:30 pm._

It should have been the first hint.

This is the first time Castiel has allowed Dean to know where he is living, Dean realizes, but the odd happiness that comes with the fact that Cas is starting to trust him is tainted with the fact that he shouldn’t.

The car Cas had left him turns out to be a Honda Pilot that feels like an alien compared to Dean’s Impala, although he isn’t about to complain. Seafood Sam’s is a casual looking dining place, a white counter to order up food on right at the entrance, leading out to tables and chairs spread out in cafeteria style setting, a mural or the sea by the top of the wall.

There’s a smattering of families here, tourists, and fishermen all talking and having a good time, wearing bermuda shorts and T-shirts so Castiel with his suit and trench coat stick out like a sore thumb, sitting in the corner and staring at his hands resting on the table, eyebrows furrowed like he’s thinking hard. At least Dean had had the forethought to wear jeans and a T-shirt, familiar leather jacket on. 

Dean orders some fries and... fried clams before coming over to join Cas, holding a plastic lobster that will buzz when the food’s ready.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean sits down opposite to Castiel, setting down the lobster inches away from Cas’s interlocked hands. 

The startling blue eyes (lighter in the shop lights) flash up at him before returning to his hands, which reach over and start fiddling with Dean’s lobster.

“Hello, Dean.”

The awkward silence doesn’t last longer than a few moments before Dean clears his throat and slides an envelope over to Castiel, the second set of bank codes. 

“How are we going to do this?” Dean asks, glancing around although Cas has chosen a pretty seclusive place to sit.

Castiel stares at him for a moment, as if trying to come to a decision, and right when it seems like he’ll answer the damn lobster starts flashing red and buzzing. 

“Food’s ready,” Dean says as he stands, and surprisingly, Castiel stands with him. He ends up carrying the fried clams while Dean gets the fries, going straight back to the table while Dean empties ketchup on to plates.

After a couple fries Dean braves himself enough to try the fried clams, and they don’t taste exactly _bad_ , just weird and he ends up offering to plate to Cas who takes it and digs in. 

“So, Cape Cod?” Dean says while picking up more fries. Of all the places to set up safe house, Cape Cod wouldn’t exactly have been Dean’s first choice.

“We will be safe here for now,” Castiel replies, dipping a fried clam into the ketchup. “Tomorrow at one pm I’d like you to meet me here,” An envelope is slid across the table, bumping into Dean’s plate of fries. 

Dean pockets the envelope. “Yeah, okay. But, I mean, why here?” 

Castiel looks away towards the place where the restaurant takes orders, and then stands up suddenly. His eyes are clouded, a faraway look about his face, and it’s the reason why Dean lets him walk out of the place without so much as a goodbye.

With a sigh he looks back at the food, appetite leaving him. He unfolds the letter inside the envelope, Castiel’s now familiar handwriting scrawled right in the middle.

_Wellfleet Bay Nature Reserve, beach._.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Feedback is much loved :3


	7. Sissam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> High tide...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Round and Round ~ Imagine Dragons

The path to the bay reserve is sandy; deserted because of the season of Autumn and perpetually breezy. Halfway to the boardwalk there’s a pond dubbed Turtle Pond because of the little dudes suntanning out on logs in the summer, although now everything is just smooth water and cool air.

It leads into deep grassy brush, winding straight through on a boardwalk built over the nesting grounds of a million little fiddler crabs that Dean can just see peeking out of their holes as he walks by. The grass ends and opens up to the bay, sea grass and sand and Castiel, the entire place empty of other people.

The sea is beautiful, (Dean can appreciate that contrary to popular belief), and the clouds in the sky are look like feathers, wispy and translucent. For a moment he can imagine that he’s on vacation maybe, or bringing Sammy and his family on a road trip cross country, or meeting a friend. Castiel is there, on the other side of the bay, suit on and trench coat blowing in the breeze. 

Dean is beginning to doubt the dude has any other clothes.

He stops once he gets a few feet away from Cas. “Nice place.”

Cas is staring at the sea, a seashell in his hand, head slightly tipped skyward. Dean blames his sudden breathlessness on the sandy trek he had to take to get over here. Castiel’s voice is as rough as ever, and it really shouldn’t still surprise him. 

“When I was just starting out in this,” he glances over at Dean. “ _business_ , I would come here to get away from it all.” 

Dean is moving closer, an unconscious thing, until he’s standing side by side with his target, facing the sea and watching the birds fly around. 

“I always came around this time of the year, when the summer was over and not as many people were interested. It’s my third favorite place on earth.”

Dean is imagining Cas, maybe a younger twenty something Cas kneeling in the sand, picking up shells, compiling a list of favorite places. It’s not the reason why they’re here, but he want’s to hear more, want’s to know more about Cas. Instead, he ends up saying something about himself.

“I’ve never really seen the ocean much,” he says, and he can feel Castiel’s gaze on the side of his face. “I lived my life on the road... before.”

Dean finally looks over at Castiel and he’s doing that thing where he tilts his head and looks like a confused puppy and Dean does not think anything of it at all.

“Was it hard not having a home?” Castiel asks, and if it was anyone else Dean would’ve thought they were just being rude, but there’s no malice in his voice, just curiosity.

Dean shuffles his boots in the sand, kicking sand into the creeping tide. “I had a home. My car was my home, my family.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward so much as speculative, like Dean can feel Castiel picking apart his answer and pondering it with that weird intensity of his. 

“It must be nice having a place to belong.” Castiel murmurs, gaze wandering back to the ocean. “My family isn’t... was never a place for me,” 

Dean doesn’t know what to do with information, and yet he knows he’s filing away somewhere, in some file marked Castiel Novak in the back of his head.

“I’m sorry about that,” Castiel says suddenly, and there’s a small thump as the seashell he was holding drops onto the sand again. “We’re here to do business. But before we do you should know,” he shifts slightly, facing Dean. “my... acquaintances will be catching up with us soon. I’ll be moving locations. Everything is in here.” 

Another envelope is passed to him, their hand’s brushing weirdly when Dean takes it, and he blurts out, “Wouldn’t emailing or something be easier?”

The world class confused face is back. “Email? It would be like a red flag for unwanted attention. They cannot trace a letter nearly as easily.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, feeling slightly stupid. “and the name?”

“Belinda Arland.” He turns around and Dean follows his lead. “We should leave now before—”

The sandy stretch that Dean had walked on to cross the bay is gone, water replacing where it had just been maybe half an hour ago.

“High tide.” Castiel finishes. 

Dean moves over to the edge of the water. 

“The water’s maybe two feet deep where the path was. We’ll have to wade.” 

He thanks whatever it was that gave him the foresight to wear khaki’s. Cas is next to him, removing his dress shoes and staring at the water like it’s offending him. 

He plunges right into the water, which rises up to mid thigh, not even bothering to roll up his pants. “This island will submerged in maybe ten minutes, Dean. I suggest you hurry.”

So Dean stumbles after him ungracefully, splashing around in a way that makes Castiel glare because the water is fucking _cold_. 

“Why– _whoa_ , why did you choose a place that would be _underwater_ soon?” Dean grumbles, something hard that he doesn’t want to think about bumping into his toes. The shore is a couple meters away.

“I lost track of time.” Cas replies, coat and suit weighing him down. “If we hadn’t— _oomph._ ”

Cas had stepped off the shallow area where the path had been, into the deeper part, affectively tripping and now soaking wet.

“Stop laughing,” he grumbles, even as he’s latched onto Dean arm trying to get back onto the sand bar.

Dean composes himself with considerable effort. Cas is giving him another death glare, although it doesn’t meet its full potential with Cas’s hair sticking up in all directions, his many layers of clothes sticking to his slight frame.

The death glare diminishes to a look of grumpy embarrassment by the time they make it back to the parking lot (the old ladies in the reserve building had shoed them out dripping wet as they were).

Castiel had taken off his coat so now just his black suit clung to him, still a bit ridiculous looking, although Dean had the sneaking suspicion that they had broken some unspoken rule of business exchanges. 

Driving away, Dean does his best to pretend he’s not thinking of a soaking wet Castiel, and if he is, its just because he looked funny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading
> 
> Feedback is much loved :D


	8. Tuesday Aeternam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taken in part from the episode "The Man Who Would Be King", in which Castiel goes to his favorite heaven, an autistic man's Forever Tuesday park.

A week after he and Castiel had waded in the Atlantic Dean found himself back in Pontiac, Illinois, hopping out of his airport cab with the third stack of codes, trying to ignore the lighthearted feeling in his chest at the thought of seeing Cas. It wasn't because he was seeing Cas anyways. He was just relieved to be out of Cape Cod.

Fall was now in full drive, and the place where Castiel had arranged to meet (some park ten miles from his parent's house) was bursting with trees and old people flying kites, some kids by the tree line. Castiel was sitting on a bench near some wilting flowers, head up and body relaxed, like he had looked at the reserve bay back in Cape Cod, and for some reason Dean has to stop and stare for a moment to collect himself. For a person who hasn't so much as laughed in his presence Castiel looked damn close to happy and for some reason, Dean wanted to preserve that.

It was probably the inner sap in him that Sam had worn so well, sympathy and all since he would be... He would have killed Cas by next week. He throws the thought to the back of his kind, buries it like a bunch of other crap he carries.

He has to stop caring. He has to start distancing himself from the target because of his goddamn conscience.

And then all thoughts like that go away when Castiel looks over and finds Dean, fixes him with those blue eyes and _smiles_ like he's glad to see him. And Dean freezes because there's sunlight glinting off his hair and his eyes look electric in the bright light and it's getting harder and harder to blame this feeling on jet lag.

So he just ignores it and smiles back, patented Dean Winchester.

"So," he says airily, sitting down on the bench, oddly aware of Castiel just a foot away. "Pontiac, Illinois?"

Cas squints at Dean for a moment like he's sensed something wrong and then says slowly, "This is where I grew up. I used to come here every single Tuesday in the summer, it's beautiful now but you should really see it in the summer..."

Castiel had turned his attention back to the trees, a wistful expression on his face, almost sad. Maybe it should have been weird for Cas to be telling Dean, his shaky ally, things about his family, about himself, but Dean brushed it off as part of Castiel's inherent oddness. And though he would never admit it out loud, Dean liked learning those little bit and pieces. 

Giggling came from far off, the breeze gentle and carrying leaves and the place really was beautiful (a place Adam would love) and maybe he _would_ come back here with them... In the summer...

"I take it you have my codes?" Cas asks suddenly, straightening a little in a way Dean knows is his way of saying _business time._

"Uh, yeah they're right here." He hands over the folder, and Castiel exchanges that with a little note, the name _Larry Milver_.  
"I have something to discuss with you, Dean." Cas's voice is calm and demure, but Dean goes on edge anyways. 

"Yeah?"

"I want you to accompany me this week to Pennsylvania, my last safe house." Dean's surprise must have shown in his face because Cas goes on quickly, shifting like he does to face Dean full on. "My enemies from New York have caught up with me quicker than expected, and they will be targeting you as well. I have some things to put in order, and it will all be easier and safer if you stay with me. Frankly, they are now using you as a direct map to where my next destination will be."

Castiel want Dean to go road tripping with him all the way to the pen state. Dean wants to argue that he can take care of himself, that in his goddamn suitcase there are fucking bombs and a sniper rifle and that he's an _assassin_. But of course he doesn't do that, and he agrees and they drive away awkwardly in Cas's really expensive car.

 

**************

To Dean's utter surprise Cas pulls up in a small looking motel complex on the side of the road.

"No Millenium Hilton?" Dean jokes but Cas just stares at him, still dressed like a tax accountant or something and says.

"This is Pontiac, Illionois."

They rent two separate motel rooms (after a particularly confusing and embarrassing conversation with the guy at the desk that no, they were not together, and no they would not be taking a room together either). The walls are paper thin and so he can hear Castiel bustling around on the right side of the room from the door, and the sound of things Dean doesn't want to think about happening on the left.

This was going to be a long night.

As predicted, Dean is woken up at 1:32 am by noises coming from Castiel's room, his voice alternating with a muffled second, like he was on the phone. It might be his imagination but Dean thinks he can hear Cas say, "Will in safe," before he's drifting off again.

 

***********

 

Bright and early in the morning (Cas had mentioned their plane was at twelve) Dean is up and knocking on Cas's door. There's a muffled " _Coming,_ " and then a bang and a groan before a very grumpy looking Cas opens the door with only wife beater his dress pants on.

"Dude, I have got to stop opening the door on you like this," Dean says before his mental filter kicks into gear. Cas's glare turns from poisonous to deadly. "Planes at twelve, right?" 

Castiel's voice is even more gravely in the morning, not that Dean minds. "It is six in the morning, Dean. There is time." 

The door slams in his face and a half an hour later they're on the road to the airport, equip with cheeseburgers and, for Dean, some beer.

Castiel is glancing disparagingly at the drink while driving, until he finally says, "It's only seven am Dean."

Dean grunts the takes another sip. "It's ten pm somewhere, and I hate planes."

Oops. Never tell potential enemies your weaknesses.

Oddly, Dean doesn't really care, even if Cas has every reason to turn into his enemy.

They park and an employee takes Castiel's car to be shipped over to Pennsylvania with them. The seats on the plane are, unsurprisingly, first class, and Dean is grateful because that means less people to see him have a panic attack.

It’s only until they are a thousand feet in the air and completely horizontal that Dean can unclench his hands where they’ve been killing the armrests. Castiel is (pointedly) not looking at him, instead staring out the window and into the sky. He spends most of the flight like that, looking into the horizon and down below and up above with an expression akin to the one he’d worn at his childhood park.


	9. Vobiscum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week is spent together.

~Friday~

Cas has arranged for them to be in the Frosty Hollow Inn for the duration of the week.

Dean moves in (not that he has much stuff with him) and ends up sitting on his bed just _staring_ at the last manilla folder or codes, blocking off the thoughts that accompany it. He spends the day cooped up inside on his computer, researching the town they’ve come to, Coudersport, PA. 

~Saturday~ 

Dean goes down to eat because the only food he’d had yesterday was the weird cold sandwiches they served on the plane and he was _starving_. That being said, he didn’t know why he took his cereal and sat down right across from Castiel, only that the other man looks almost lonely, and he’s staring at the sky again. 

“Hey, Cas.” 

Castiel still looks a little surprised at the use of his nickname, and Dean isn’t sure why he even gave him one. 

“Hello, Dean.” he says, still looking out the window. The sky today is slightly cloudy, breeze swaying the trees.

Dean feels an odd obligation to make conversation. “So… Coudersport?”

Cas finally looks at him, and his blue eyes look especially bright in the light of the morning and suddenly Dean is feeling ill and he excuses himself to his room because there is an imagined image of of empty blue eyes and bloody brown hair in his mind and he forces himself to push the feelings away, to not _feel._

It’s a lot harder than it should be.

~Sunday~

He eats dinner with Castiel despite what happened yesterday, convinces himself that it was nothing, convinces himself that Cas is just another target even though something within him revolts at that notion.

He has a cheeseburger (its not a good cheeseburger but it’ll do), Castiel picking at his salad in the little dinner they decided to go to. Dean hasn’t asked what they’re going to do about the codes and the names. He knows a large part of him doesn’t want to know, want’s this little in between to last.

~Monday~

Breakfast is the last of Cas that Dean sees for the day, leaving on some ‘errands’ that he hadn’t specified. 

Dean has resorted to not even thinking of his task up ahead, even as he cleans his guns, not thinking of blue eyes. He thinks instead of how squirrely Castiel had been acting lately, jerked motions and sad expressions and so much staring at the sky.

~Tuesday~

When Dean heads down for lunch he can hear muffled talking through Castiel’s door, shouting almost, over the phone. It’s not his place to eavesdrop, but Dean is a fucking spy so those types of inhibitions are a bit lost to him. 

_”This is my life, Anna.”_ Castiel growls, and something shuffles, like papers.

 _”I will be mailing these to them. Do not try and stop me.”_

The rest of the conversation is lost as it seems Castiel moves deeper into his room, and Dean walks downstairs trying to connect the dots. Wasn’t Anna Castiel’s dead sister? Stop him from doing what?

Whatever it is, Dean doubts he’ll be doing, and then shoves that thought deep down.

When Cas comes down he tells Dean in a rather clipped tone that it would be nice if he slid the codes under Cas’s door tomorrow and Dean nods and swallows and finishes him lunch, all too aware that its all about to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go!   
> Thank you if you've trundled through this story, I hope you liked it (I enjoyed writing it).  
> feeeeeeedddddback  
> ^^^ look it even has the word feed in it.  
> because i am hungry.  
> look no grammar  
> gimme


	10. Venus Loco Terrae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter *wails*.
> 
> I really hope you like it, and sorry about the lack of updates. It's been a busy few weeks.

The day after Dean gives Castiel the last set of codes is a Thursday, and in the morning Cas isn’t downstairs for breakfast, nor lunch, a shame because the sky is absolutely clear and Castiel probably would have stared at it endlessly.

He’s in his room, on the phone, as Dean can tell from his frequent checks because Cas could always run now that he has all the information. Not that he will. Dean doubts Castiel is the type to break deals in business.

A looming, secret part of his mind wishes that he would.

It’s around two in the afternoon that Castiel knocks on Dean’s door tells him that he’ll be out to do something, and to expect him around six thirty at night. 

 

***************

 

There’s a knock at the door and the dread Dean’s been feeling suddenly starts building pressure at an alarming rate, heart pounding, throat dry as he tucks his gun into his waistband and opens the door. 

Castiel is standing there, trench coat on, suit rumpled, tie almost backwards, and he looks… No. 

“I will explain our destination in the car.”

Dean follows him into the expensive thing, sitting down and not even realizing that he’s staring at the silhouette of Cas’s face, passing cars making his eyes flash until Castiel looks his way for a moment and they both face forward. The dread continues to build, and Dean’s never felt this way before a kill, not even when he’d seduced one of his targets before killing her. 

There’s a deep sigh, and then Castiel says, “We’re going to Cherry Springs State Park.”

Dean remembers browsing past several mentions of the park while researching the area. It had been a… what did they call it? Dark spot. A place where the sky was so dark at night you could see galaxies. 

“Star gazing?”

Cas glances over in considerable surprise (eyes going from squinting to normal) and then nods. “The Orionids are falling tonight.”

 

************

When they arrive the sun is maybe an inch from the horizon, and by the time they trek over to where Cas has set up a blanket and chairs (like its a freaking date) it’s already gone under and Dean can see the beginnings of what he’s sure will be the most beautiful stars he’s ever seen. Cas is staring at the sky again, morose.

They sit down on the chairs and the silence here is peppered with crickets and hoots in the woods, but for once it isn’t awkward, its filled with awe. The dread that’s been following Dean around since they’d gotten into Pennsylvania is forgotten for a good half an hour as the sky steadily darkens to a solid black and stars, _so many goddamn stars_ twinkling into existence until the sky is a frozen firework of galaxies and swirling colors.

He doesn’t realize Cas is gone until he looks over to his right, and the silhouette of him is missing. There’s a moment of panic, in which he hisses, “ _Cas?_ ” into the darkness, before he find Castiel sprawled out on the blanket he laid out next to the chairs, facing a ceiling of stars. The breeze makes everything cool and slightly surreal, ruffling Castiel’s hair and brushing his cheek. 

His voice is soft and sad when he speaks. 

“This is my favorite place on earth.”

And suddenly Dean feels a weird sense of déjá vu. 

_I’ve always loved New York City._

_This is my third favorite place on earth._

_I used to come here every Tuesday in the summer…_

The idea that pops into Dean’s mind makes him swallow, makes him scramble in his head for a reason, trying to understand what it could mean.

“Cas, have we been visiting your favorite places?” he ends up blurting out, because this is beyond weird, not textbook at _all_. What kind of business was this? But then again, there had been plenty of moments in this whole transaction that hadn’t been in the same country as business, conversations and lunches that Dean had… he had enjoyed.

Even in the darkness he can feel Cas and his too blue eyes drilling into him, like something other. 

“Yes.”

Silence for a moment, and then, “I will explain in a moment. The Orionids are falling.”

For a moment Dean is confused, because he’s been basically tripping around the U.S. with Castiel to his favorite vacation destinations, almost as if… as if…

The first meteors start to fall, and all thoughts leave Dean’s mind because this is fucking amazing. 

They’re little streaks of white in the sky, dancing through the stars and again Dean thinks of how Sammy and his family would absolutely love this place. They would have loved all of these places.

Cas’s voice cuts through the air and Dean is so surprised he startles. 

“Don’t be alarmed from what I have to tell you. Just listen. I need to explain, and then you can do your job.”

“What’re you—” Dean starts.

“ _Listen._ ” Cas demands, and for some reason Dean can’t even fathom, he does. 

“My family is not dead,” and Dean is already opening his mouth to be cut off again. “My family is not only a family but an organization and I betrayed them and they will never stop coming.” Castiel’s voice sounds devoid of emotion. “I’ve been running for _so many years_ and, well, you could say that I am _tired._ ”

Through this entire speech (the most Cas has said to Dean, ever) Castiel remains on the ground, eyes fixed on the stars, and its as if Dean can’t bring himself to speak, only stare. He’s only had his identity compromised once before, and the cold, desperate terror of being caught can’t seem to find it’s way into his mind. All that’s there is the dread, the shadow of coming loss.

“I know who you are, Dean Winchester. You’re here to kill me.”

Dean feels the breath leave him, the dread inside skyrocketing, and he goes for his gun, because if Castiel knows then Castiel is going to try and kill _him_. 

“Don’t panic. I’ve been planning this for a while.” Castiel shifts and then he’s sitting up, legs tucked up to his chest like a small child, eyes glinting at Dean in the dark. “The last name is Aria Clesmond.” another deep sigh, like he’s gathering up the nerve.

“I am tired of running. I am tired of being alone. Tonight you’re going to kill me. And I just—” his voice breaks and Dean feels something inside him break with it. “I just wanted to die here.”

For a moment everything is impossibly still here on the ground, even while the stars fall up above because now everything is making horrible sense, Seafood _Sam’s_ and the conversations on the phone and the constant staring at the sky. Then Dean is moving like a robot set on auto, moving to the ground where Cas is curled up, bright blue eyes following his every move as Dean sits down next to him and steadies his shaking hands and presses the end of his gun into Cas’s dark hair. His eyes are closed. They were the most amazing shade of blue/

And something snaps inside Dean.

Something wild and angry and screaming _No_ because Dean _knows_ that he’ll never bring Sammy and his family to Cape Cod, to Bethesda Fountain, to this Cherry Springs Park because he won’t be able to even think of these places without remembering blue eyes and trenchcoats and cheeseburgers and _Castiel_.

The unfairness of everything comes crashing down because he never _wanted_ to kill people for a living, and Castiel never wanted to choose between being killed by his family or by some corporate spy.

So Dean drops the gun.

Castiel’s eyes snap open, wide and reflective and Dean is still slightly in shock because he’s made the decision that he’s going to stick it to the man and _not_ kill Cas (probably condemning himself, but he can’t really care at the moment). Uriel’s threatening face is in the back of his mind.

So he decides to blame the shock when he leans in and kisses him. 

Surprisingly, Dean is the one to pull away first, breathless, completely confused, and… happy.

“What the fuck just happened.” he breathes, staring at Cas whose staring at Dean like he’s seeing him for the first time, hair all askew and looking so _very_ good.

Cas just shakes his head slowly with those wide eyes and pulls Dean back down onto the blanket. They lie there and pretend Castiel isn’t a marked man, like Dean wasn’t the one sent there to kill him, and watch the stars. They watched the stars fall like the world around them, and didn’t think of tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go.
> 
> Fin.
> 
> End.
> 
> Maybe there'll be a sequel because I like this verse.
> 
> Please leave feedback!
> 
> *whispers; writing is hard*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading
> 
> Feedback is much loved :)


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